Secrets
by Le Masque31
Summary: "Perhaps the heavy, earthy scent of the forest had intoxicated our senses; or perhaps we were both stark raving mad; or it might have been the raw tension between us ... I did not know. Truth be told, I did not care either." Harry roams the grounds of Hogwarts one night, and whom should he run into but Lord Voldemort? Set during HBP. Told from Harry's perspective. SLASH HP/LV.


**A/N:** This is set during HBP, and it is narrated by Harry himself. Therefore, Voldemort's motivations are, at best, vague. While writing it, I imagined that Voldemort simply wishes to see the castle again (it has always been his home, after all) and that his running across Harry is an unforeseen circumstance; but you don't have to read it that way. (By the way, I know that Apparating on the grounds of Hogwarts is impossible, but Voldie could have Apparated into Hogsmeade instead and walked to the Forbidden Forest.) As for why Voldemort chooses to continue with Harry's, er, _activities_, well, it could be curiosity on his part or the realization that the boy is a Horcrux. Harry's scar does not hurt during their encounter because I could not find a way to work that in without a lengthy digression into the topic of Horcruxes, which I did not want. Sorry about that.

On another note, you can now find a Russian version of this fic, courtesy of Shizuka19. Just head to my profile page for the link.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

The first time I slept with my enemy was on a cold night in mid-October. The stars looked watery and indistinct amidst weeping wisps of cloud, as though someone had done a bad pastel painting of the sky. The Great Hall felt too stifling, too packed, and there was no room for me, and besides the feast would be over soon, and I had no patience left for the antics of the boys in our cramped dormitory. I needed solitude and fresh air and anything else that would distract me from the nameless, aching pressure—that biting, heavy darkness—in my heart. So I decided to head for the Forbidden Forest, with nothing but my wand in tow; for I felt thin and stretched and immaterial—in short, I felt like nothing that would warrant the use of my Invisibility Cloak; rain and trees would have to suffice for concealment tonight.

One does not know the world until one has sat in solitary silence, I mused in a rare display of acumen. I could hear the wind, and now more than ever it seemed a torrent of wails, a stream of sighs, all issuing from those who had crossed the Veil, never to return, yet could not but offer a commentary on the dealings of the living. I strained to hear their voices, thinking perhaps that the import of their words would be as soothingly numbing as their frozen breaths were upon my heated skin; but the sound twisted, fleeing, only to come back low and whistling, another voice entirely, or perhaps no voice at all. I tried to make out the outline of Hogwarts, an angular mass even darker than the night around it, but found it had melted and morphed, no longer solid, carried away by pelting rain. I could see mist seeping out of the earth with the slowness of skeletons, the body of ghosts—the shroud of night, the rattling exhale of the earth itself; it wound gray arms round the castle, and then fell away, crashing into itself, crawling higher up the ancient stone walls. It was surreal, this slow dance of mist and stone, this frisson of nature; and I thought, stupidly, that none of it had been real—Sirius had not died, Dumbledore had not lied, and Ron and Hermione had not declared a tacit war of wills, fought with venomous glares and hidden tears. And because nothing was real, I did not draw my wand when I heard that cold, cold voice slicing the air in a mocking query.

"Harry Potter—even heroes grow tired of their fame, I take it?"

"Voldemort." It was not an acknowledgement of his presence. It was a statement, made more to myself than to him—my mind's whispered reminder to be on my guard. I turned around, and there he was, standing so close to me—almost leaning over me—that I gave an involuntary start. The world seemed to harden around him, solidifying into something dreary and concrete, and I shuddered, my mind chasing the gentle ghost it had entertained only to draw back, hurt and empty-handed. "What do you want?" I asked in a harsh voice. His presence, like a Dementor, hurled reality at me until I suffocated beneath its weight, bound by (_pain pain pain, in flashes of green light and mad shrieks of laughter_) memories.

He grinned at me, his skull-like face split by a humorless leer. "Merely your company, boy."

I stared. "My _company_?"

"Yes, Potter, despite its inherent unpleasantness. I will not raise my wand against you tonight, but I cannot risk you running off and alerting the Headmaster about the presence of an intruder on the grounds."

My bubble of unreality had returned, but this time it was cold and jagged and hard, clothed in the form of Lord Voldemort. "You won't raise your wand against me tonight."

It was not a question. He answered regardless. "No, Potter. Not tonight."

"Then why are you here?" I blurted out, the flame of anger in my chest giving bite to my words. This was the man who had killed my parents. This was the man on whose orders that Lestrange woman had been acting. He had no right to come here with no wand drawn and this bloody candor hanging about him, hiding in his words, as though truth were a natural thing between us.

"Not only heroes need a break, Harry." His voice was a sigh, and, like the wind, it cradled some hidden meaning, a covert import, which fled when I pursued it and taunted me with its nearness upon my retreat.

I snarled at him, the flame of anger stirred into a burning blaze. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Riddle? You can't bloody well come here and ask me to keep you company! You killed my parents, you killed Cedric, and Sirius is dead because of you! You say you won't fight, but, well, I sure as hell will!" My numb fingers fumbled with the rough, denim-clad edges of my pocket—"_Goddammit_!"—before, victorious, they yanked my wand out by its very tip.

"I had nothing to do with your godfather's death, Harry. Bellatrix was not acting on my orders."

"I—DON'T—CARE!" My scream stunned the night into silence. I was breathing hard now, through my nose, clasping my wand so fiercely that my knuckles stood out white and unnatural. With one fluid motion, Voldemort tore it from my grasp and let it fall to the ground.

My cry this time was inarticulate, a wordless imprecation spiked with the mad frenzy of white-hot rage, propelled by the rawness of agony. I lunged at him, my hands fisting in his robes, my weight forcing him to back up against a nearby bole in order to keep from toppling over. I had every intention of throttling him.

"You bastard!" I screeched, shaking him as though my life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

I felt him shift before he actually did it. He pushed me away ever so slightly, and then, gripping my shoulders, spun us both around until my back collided with the rough surface of the tree.

"Listen carefully, Potter," he spat, teeth baring in an animalistic sneer, "I had no intention of harming you tonight, but if you continue to prove yourself unable to behave in a civilized manner, you have my assurance that I will not stand for your foolishness." He let go of me in a harsh spasm of a gesture, as though he had barely restrained himself from throwing me to the forest floor.

It was madness that raised its leering head within me at his words—a monstrous creature, with a cobra's flaring hood, twisting and rippling in sinuous undulations. I was trapped—I was disarmed. Its siren-like voice called out to me, comforting, luring, goading, until I found myself reaching out for Voldemort. My fingers closed over bony shoulders, and pulled: taken by surprise, he crashed into me—waves onto the parched sand of my mind—and our lips collided. He tasted spicy and sweet and _dangerous_ all at once, and dark, devious pleasure throbbed inside me, the tension in my limbs draining away to be replaced by something hot and urgent. His teeth tore into my lip, blood dripping down my chin (_and I should have been revolted, disgusted, yet my body curved into his touch_), and I wound my arms around his neck, keeping him immobile even though he had given no indication of wanting to pull away.

Perhaps the heavy, earthy scent of the forest had intoxicated our senses; or perhaps we were both stark raving mad; or it might have been the raw tension between us, for right now it felt as though it might have consumed me had I denied it physical expression. I did not know. Truth be told, I did not care either. All I cared about—all that managed to cross the blazing expanse of muddled thoughts to reach that poor, beleaguered part of my brain still capable of rational action—was the man in my arms and the moans he was desperately trying to stifle against my mouth; for we had started grinding against each other (_and—oh!—his erection was throbbing against my belly, and why was I feeling hot and achy when I should have been horrified?_). His fingers curled into my hair, nails digging painfully into my scalp, and I yelped and tried to move away, but he held fast onto the strands of hair wrapped around his fingers, thrusting his tongue inside my mouth—plundering, claiming, ravaging. It was slick and hot, his tongue, forked like a serpent's, and when he tilted my head backward to forge deeper into my mouth, I could not but moan helplessly.

Voldemort was the first to break the kiss. He tore his mouth away from mine, labored breaths misting between us—and it was this mist that softened the expression in his eyes, for tenderness would wither and die inside this cruel, powerful man, expelling its last breath in a dark, silent tomb. The moment was gone as quickly as it had come: he fixed his eyes on my shirt, frowning at it as though it had personally offended him; his hands latched onto it, and he pulled it over my head, knocking my glasses askew and the breath out of my lungs—the night air was damp and cool, and raindrops slid down my chest, making my flesh shiver. His fingers gripped my jeans, yanking impatiently on the zipper, and I could barely hear his peevish mutter—something about "_damn Muggle contraptions_"—over the rush of blood in my ears. I found myself naked, his left hand pinning me against the tree trunk, while his right hand—his wand hand—closed around my leaking cock and stroked (_oh yes—it was sinful, how delicious his touch felt_).

He rubbed and stroked and teased, one nail trailing along the thick vein underneath, a stray finger pressing against my slit. It was a startling contrast, the sharp, knotty bark dragging against my back and his smooth palm moving hot and slick over my cock. I was aroused beyond measure, and uttered no protest when he gripped my shoulders and turned me around, pushing me bodily into the bole. I felt my cheeks burn when his fingers pried my buttocks apart, and had he held his wand against my throat, I do not think I would have been able to obey his whispered order to relax. I felt myself clenching around his finger when it nudged against my hole, seeking entry. It was warm and slick, and I gasped when it slid in, feeling oddly full. By the time he had three fingers up my ass, I had decided the feeling was not at all disagreeable. And then he touched that spot inside of me, and I let my forehead fall against the tree trunk, my eyelids fluttering closed against a spectacle of shooting stars.

I felt Voldemort's arms round my waist, coaxing me away from the tree, into his chest, and I let myself fall limp against him. His robes were cool against my heated skin, and I frowned and turned, looking up at him with a fistful of fabric gathered in my hand.

"Take them off," I told him, and, oh God, had I screamed myself hoarse? Voldemort gave a jerky nod, fishing out his wand from some secret pocket and waving it about rather erratically. His robes vanished, settling in an orderly pile on the forest floor; his wand followed suit. I was still staring when he finally faced me again: his skin was stretched taut over jutting bones—how could such power be held in so frail a body?—so flawless, so pale that it practically shimmered in the darkness of the forest. His cock—a slender instrument, milky white with splotches of pink at the head—stood erect and leaking. I cleared my throat awkwardly, forcing my eyes toward his face.

"On your knees, Potter," he hissed as he advanced toward me, a smirk playing about his lips. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed me to my knees himself; I lost my balance and toppled over, bracing myself on my forearms and unwittingly offering an unimpeded view of my ass. I heard the rustle of leaves as he knelt behind me. Moans spilled heedlessly from my lips when he spread my cheeks and positioned the head of his cock against my hole. He was rubbing it back and forth, teasing, and I was too far gone, too caught up in the wicked web of lust, to think about anything else besides the need to feel him inside me.

"Please," I chanted, teetering over the edge between consciousness and pure primal desire, "please, please, please."

"Begging already, Potter?" he jeered, but my reply was torn out of me in an incoherent scream as his cock slid inside me, slowly, _oh_ so slowly, stretching and burning in pulses of sweet, sweet ecstasy. He clawed at my hips, holding me steady as he pounded into me, again and again, filling me to the point of pain and sending the most delicious jolts of pleasure careening up my spine.

"What would your parents say if they saw you now, being fucked by their murderer and begging for more like a wanton slut?" he taunted, chest soldered to my back, breath fanning hot against my ear.

"Shut up," I huffed, ending my sentence in a gasp—his fingers were light and playful against my cock, spurring me to delirious heights of desire. And then he tightened his grip, and I was lost: I came with a keening cry, and my orgasm was like the sea, wave upon violent wave crashing into me, sweeping me along. The bruising force of his fingers was dim on the edge of my consciousness, the fresh, earthy scent of the forest a far-off staple of reality. Voldemort came with a shudder, filling my ass with hot, heavy semen, riding out his orgasm before collapsing, spent, over me.

"That was nice," I slurred, shifting my hips slightly, feeling his limp cock inside me. An appreciative grunt was my only response. It might have been madness that had persuaded me to throw myself head-first into this twisting tunnel of sexual deviancy. It might have been madness that had pushed his forbidden name to my lips in the rushing pleasure of orgasm. It might have been madness, indeed; but I did not care. I had had this impossible creature all bared to me, and it made me feel powerful, the most powerful wizard in the world, and in control, too.

The forest swayed with the fitful wind, and so did Voldemort as he pushed himself off of me and, specter-like, glided toward the ancient, gnarled bole to retrieve his robes. I rolled over so as to lie on my back. I was filthy and sweaty, and my asshole felt stretched and was surely leaking if the wetness between my legs was anything to go by; but it had been bloody brilliant.

"Potter."

"Huh?" I raised myself up on my elbows, and gazed up into the eyes of my enemy, who was, oddly enough, looking clean and composed, as though he had not just fucked his prophesied nemesis.

"You'll catch your death if you continue to lie on this sodden ground."

"You do care," I rejoined in a mocking mimicry of affection; I got up all the same.

"Next Saturday, same time, same place." He made to leave; I latched onto his sleeve.

"You want to do this again?"

A strange, empty stare. "Yes." Then he shook off my hold, and, with a crack, Disapparated. I smiled to myself. Secrets seemed to be sprouting up faster than Malfoy's insults this year, so surely I must be entitled to one of my own.


End file.
